


The Outstretched Hand

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: The Outer Rim [19]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Family Feels, Fatherhood, Gen, Post-Chapter 14: The Tragedy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: Din Djarin is a man of action, but sometimes, the quiet finds its way in.  Din reckons with the aftermath of the events of Chapter 14, the Tragedy.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin
Series: The Outer Rim [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055645
Comments: 39
Kudos: 337





	The Outstretched Hand

He could do this, he thought. He had to do this. He left the smoking crater of the _Razor Crest_ , the ash a metallic powder on his boots, and he stepped into the unfamiliar ship, flanked by his new allies. **  
**

Hollow words, echoing in the confines of Fett’s ship. He’d never been a man of many of them, but urgency dictated he trim them further. Brief, clipped sentences, the language of _doing_ something, names and faces flashing in his mind. _Cara Dune. Migs Mayfeld._ Something like a plan. 

As if from a great distance he saw Fett and Shand nodding, the plan decided. Why did they seem so far away? Their mouths moved. The words passed, uncomprehended, through his helmet. He blinked.

Fett squared his shoulders, leaned towards him. Din shied back. “What?” he asked sharply.

“I said, you can rest below if you need to,” said Fett, glancing to Shand. “There is time, before Nevarro.”

“The plan is sound,” said Shand, tilting her head and looking him over. “But some rest will do you good.” She fixed him with a piercing gaze.

“I’m fine,” he bit out. But he glanced down to his hand, resting at his side, and noted it was trembling. He hadn’t felt it at all. Yet he knew it would not have escaped a sharpshooter’s eye.

“You have our word,” said Fett, and there was steel in his voice. “We _will_ retrieve the Child.”

 _His name is **Grogu**_ – 

The tremor intensified, his hand twitching into a shaky fist vibrating against his thigh. “I know,” he managed, holding the hand tightly against his side until the tremor ceased. He stiffly got to his feet, shoulders rising and falling heavily with each breath. “Thank you. I’ll – be below.” 

Fett and Shand exchanged looks. Something like worry, maybe. He didn’t know. Didn’t care.

He took the narrow ladder to the lower level, an ache settling deep into his bones, his breath catching in his throat. He nearly missed the bottom rung and stumbled slightly, catching himself. _Razor Crest_ ’s ladder was one shorter than this. 

He turned out of habit, then realized he was looking at a rack of weapons, not a bunk. _Wrong way. It’s not your ship._ His ship was nothing more than ash in a forgotten valley –

He turned around, disoriented. Things were normal – carbonite transport unit, weapons racks, power sources – and completely foreign both. The engines hummed through the bulkheads, just like home, but the pitch was wrong, the mechanical whine singing a tune he didn’t know.

There was a cramped little refresher stall a few feet away, bigger than the _Crest_ ’s. Vac tube, a sink, and most importantly, a door. He entered and closed it behind him, making certain that the lock keyed up. It flashed red and white at him, promising privacy. Good.

He sank onto the tube’s seat, hard. He took a deep, shuddering breath and removed his helmet, setting it carefully in his lap.

Wild eyes under sweat-mussed hair stared back at him, and he nearly jerked backward until he realized he was looking at a dingy mirror, set into the plasteel wall over the sink. It had been some time since he’d seen his face. He scanned it briefly for injuries – was that why he felt so strange? 

No, he was unharmed. The beskar had done its task as always. His face, a stranger’s, flickered in the mirror. 

He averted his gaze from the dark shadows under the eyes, refusing to look at the way the mouth twisted tight to the side. He stared at his hands instead.

Hands that had grown used to holding a child’s.

 _No._ He couldn’t think about that. About him. _Focus. You can’t help him if you lose control._ He knew he could stand up, put his helmet back on, go back to the cockpit. He could be cold as ice as long as he needed to be, as long as he had to be to see this through; this was the Way. 

But he didn’t get up. He remembered the trembling hand, the way Fett’s and Shand’s voices had seemed to come from so far away.

Perhaps rest was needed after all.

He reached, haltingly, for the treasure in his belt pouch. He rolled it between his gloved fingertips, its silvery smooth material glinting under the dim lights overhead. “Grogu. Go on, take it. It’s yours,” he whispered.

There was no answer. No dark, trusting eyes in an inquisitive small face. No burble of delight at finally hearing his name for the first time in months… maybe years. No look of concentration, no small hand reaching, reaching out. The little ball weighed heavy in his palm.

He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, a terrible emptiness spreading through his chest and belly. It couldn’t be real. None of this could be _real_. 

He was going to open his eyes again and see the familiar scuffed walls of the _Razor Crest_ ; he’d hear the engine hum, soft and quiet in the background. He’d be holding the control knob in his hand, whooping when the kid moved it just because he’d asked him to. He’d be chuckling when Grogu looked up brightly, outsized ears vibrating to the sound of his own name. He smiled, faintly, hoping for a moment –

He was being foolish.

He opened his eyes, reality leaching in. _Slave I_ thrummed around him, the song of its engines nothing like home. Reddened brown eyes stared back at him; streaks of water glinted on the lined, weary face in the mirror. 

He reached up and brushed his hand against his cheek. He could feel the damp even through his glove’s fingertips. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said hoarsely. Din scrubbed his hand over his face, his shoulders shaking, and the strange engine hum drowned out the sound of sobs.

***

He didn’t know how long he sat there, bowed over his helmet, head aching, cheeks wet. Memories chased him, dark dreams in the dim light.

_The stink of mud, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the child raising such a small, small hand to help._

_A boy in the cellar, the sounds of screams and blasters, the terror in his parents’ faces._

_The kid laughing, dark eyes crinkled with mischief, a sneaky little smile on his face –_

_His parents, there and then gone, a small boy quivering alone in the dark –_

_Grogu, sleepy and quiet, cradled gently in his arms – was it time to say goodbye?_

_Daylight, bright, bright, bright through the crack in the cellar doors, a hand outstretched to save him–_

_The hand outstretched –_

He could do this. He _had_ to do this. His fist closed around the little ball, and he swallowed. 

He carefully tucked the ball back into his belt pouch, keeping it safe. He lifted his helmet and caught a final glimpse of the face in the mirror, the brown eyes swollen but calm. 

“Don’t worry, kid.” Din fitted the helmet over his head, and the beskar felt like home. “I’m coming.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just... can't... with these feels... ;______________;
> 
> Edit: I couldn't help myself and drew my favorite little bit from this story. FEEEEEELS
> 
>   
> 


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